Search Party
by JazzyCat
Summary: Mikan, hungover, runs into Natsume early one morning. He's been looking all over for her, but he'd die before admit it. T for language. Cute oneshot vignette.


It was raining, she realized unhappily as she stepped out of the house. Looking back over her shoulder she saw the door was closed. She wouldn't be getting back in.

Her head was pounding from the alcohol, and she was cold. Had she worn a jacket? She didn't remember. But she discovered that one of her heels was broken, making it very awkward to walk.

Mikan brushed her wet hair away from her face, took off her shoes, and kept a careful (drunken) watch on the ground to avoid any broken glass or bugs.

'Maybe staying out all night was a bad idea,' she mused, pressing one hand to her temple, which twitched under her touch. 'Maybe I should never party again.'

She knew she wouldn't adhere to that new policy for long though. It was almost a waste of energy just to say it.

Mikan normally was not a big drinker, but someone had invented just the right combination of alcohol and fruity-flavored mixers to appeal to her childish tastes, and a dozen drinks later, she was half-passed out on someone's couch watching all the pretty lights dance by.

'Oh, god, what was that drink even called? And who invited me to that party?' She asked herself, though she dared not speak aloud, for fear of making her head explode. Although the cool rain was quickly making her buzz dissipate. Her mouth and eyes were still dry and itchy.

'Where the hell am I?'

She didn't recognize her surroundings well, but eventually noticed a subway sign and limped off toward it (she'd stubbed her toe against the side of a building she hadn't seen coming), hoping that somewhere in her tight clothing there was a handful of change or a subway pass, though she doubted it.

"Mikan?"

The girl in question turned—a little too fast—and stumbled, falling with her hands out against the hard chest of a man.

At least, she hoped it was a man. If there was a woman alive with such hard, defined abs, they were probably not very feminine-looking, and therefore unfortunate.

"Yesh?" She slurred, and then wrinkled her nose. 'Is that what my voice sounds like drunk? Ew. I'm seriously considering never drinking again.' She looked up to find the face of…whoever this was, and concentrated hard on getting rid of her double vision.

"Jesus, Polka, are you drunk?" A hand on her upper arm steadied her before she pitched over head-first.

A bubbly giggle sounded. "Wuh-ever made you think tha?" She asked, slapping the hand away playfully. Her vision was stable enough that she could make out an umbrella sheltering a very tall man—a man she knew, from that horrible nick-name, to be none other than Natsume Hyuuga—and little else. She blamed this on the poor lighting on this street.

"Christ, you stink of alcohol."

Mikan lifted the neckline of her shirt just enough to sniff herself. "I don't think it's that bad," she said, and truly believed herself. "I think I smell like rain." Her voice had sobered up, and she thought it meant that the rest of her had as well. Believing herself to have her sense of balance back, Mikan tipped her head back and tried to twirl under the light spray of rain. It failed epically. She ended up sitting in a dirty puddle.

"Icky," she noted lightly, observing the ground carefully.

"Come here, Polka." A large, dark hand was shoved in front of her nose.

"Whatami suppozed to dew with that?" Her blinking was uneven.

"Polka, were you at a party?" The umbrella disappeared just long enough for Natsume's hands to slip under Mikan's armpits and pull her to her feet. He didn't let go of her waist until she was steady again, then picked his umbrella back up and held it over both of them.

Mikan looked up to Natsume's face. Was that concern? Or relief? No way in hell. It must be the alcohol.

"Yes, Natsume, I was at a party. And I wish you wouldn't call me by that stupid nick-name. _My_ name is Mikan. Mikan Sakura. Here, let me write it down so you can remember it."

Her hands fumbled around her tight skinny jeans and teeny-tiny, very exposing shirt looking for a pen that she knew she wouldn't have, and simultaneously—though unintentionally—drawing attention to her rather unfortunate attire.

"What the hell are you wearing?" Natsume's voice was suddenly hard.

"What are _you_ wearing?" Mikan stopped searching herself, and instead searched for her shoes, which she'd dropped. Her head was beginning to clear, and the double vision was gradually returning to normal. Unfortunately, with the absence of giddiness came the inevitable hangover.

She tried to pry Natsume's hand off her elbow but he wouldn't let go. She glared at him. "Hands off the goods, sister!" She joked, though no smile lit her face. The man's fingers unclamped just long enough for Mikan to get her shoes, and then they were back on her.

"Where was this party, Polka?"

"I told you, don't call me that."

"I'm being serious here!"

"So am I!" Mikan whirled on him. "If you want me to talk to you, then I demand some respect! You've been calling me that since we were eleven and I've been asking you for just as long a period of time to stop it. It's been nearly ten years!"

Judging by her large compound sentences, Natsume would guess that she'd sobered up completely. And that she was pissed off. And probably hung over.

"Now what the hell do you want? It's—" she grabbed his arm, twisted his wrist to peer at his watch, took a moment too long to decipher the time, and then dropped his hand again "—half past four in the morning and I want to go home."

"You should have been home hours ago," he reminded her.

"I'm an adult, Natsume. I can take care of myself. I don't have a curfew, and whether I'm home or not at four in the morning his none of _your_ concern, though you seem intent to keep me away from it."

"Mikan, you don't even know where you are right now."

"Yes I do, I'm on the sidewalk."

"You have no idea where you are. Those clothes are so tight I can tell you don't have money for the train, so don't be in such a hurry. You're going to answer my questions. Do you even know whose party you went to? Or how you got there?" He grabbed her arm to lead her along, and this time she didn't argue. Obediently she followed him, hoping he would lead her to a car.

"I don't know whose house that was, but it was Jimmy's party."

"Jimmy?"

"Yes, Jimmy. He's American."

"Mikan, listen to me. This is very important: did you know anyone there? Or did you go to a stranger's party?"

"Pssh. He wasn't a stranger. No one is a stranger! But, no I didn't know him, not until he made me a drink."

"A drink?" There was that stony tone again.

"Yes, a drink. There was a bar in the kitchen and we sat down for a chat."

"Okay, Mikan, try to remember. How many drinks did you have?"

Mikan couldn't remember a number. She couldn't really remember anything. All she could really think of was the inflection of Natsume's voice: (and what a nice voice is was! Sort of gravelly and deep and husky, but smooth like good coffee all at the same time. It was that seductive kind of voice that was seductive even when he wasn't trying to seduce anyone) which was upset? Worried? Suspicious? Angry? Relieved? Disappointed?

She couldn't tell if any of those were right, but there seemed to be a bit of all of them.

"Um…a bunch. I don't remember. They were tasty."

"Shit."

"Hey! Watch your language! There's a lady present!" However disheveled she may be.

Slowly, a thought dawned on the inebriated girl. "Hey, Natsume, why were _you_ out at four in the morning?"

"No reason, Polka." He pulled her under the awning of an outdoor café, where the steel tables and chairs were bolted into the cement. He forced her into one of the cold, wet, uncomfortable chairs and then crouched in front of her, umbrella abandoned behind him. "Follow my finger," he ordered.

Mikan shoved his hand away. "What am I, six?"

"Shut up and do it!"

Exasperated, Mikan obeyed. Without moving her head, her eyes followed Natsume's finger as it oscillated. His eyes were trained on hers, looking for anything abnormal.

"What, do you think you're a doctor now? What are you looking for, anyway?"

Natsume was actually in med-school, and Mikan knew it. He assumed she was trying to make a joke, but overlooked it, cursing instead.

"What's wrong?"

"Your reactions are slow. You were probably drugged at that party."

"That would explain why I passed out on the couch so fast."

"Shit!" He cursed again, louder this time. "Mikan, now it's really important that you remember: how many drinks did you have?"

"Um…" she screwed her eyes shut and thought hard, recalling each blue-tinted drink in the clear plastic cups that 'Jimmy' had handed her. "At least ten."

"Shit."

"What's _wrong?_" She cried, tired of his unexplained expletives. "What's going on that I should know about?"

"What did the drink taste like, Mikan?"

"It tasted like cherries. But it was blue. And tasty." She smiled at the memory. "And before you ask, no I didn't notice anything weird about the taste. But it was my first time having whatever it was, so I wouldn't know if it was weird or not! Now what's going on?"

"You were drugged, that's what. How could you be so stupid, Mikan? Going to a stranger's party and accepting drinks from people you don't know?! We need to get you to a hospital right now!" Mikan blinked in surprise. Natsume was panicking. The sight was almost comical. He was practically flapping around like a chicken with its head cut off. She laughed.

"This isn't funny! We need to pump your stomach and get fluids in you and a freaking rape kit—"

"Rape kit? What?!"

"You've been dosed! With a lot of… probably GHB, so it's very likely you were raped. Fuck fuck _fuck_! You could drop dead from alcohol poisoning at any moment and you could have all kinds of nasty STDs and god only _knows_ what else those little shits did to you—"

"Hey, calm down!"

"How can I calm down?"

"Well, find a way and listen to me!" Mikan had been thinking while Natsume flailed. "I remember everything that happened last night…except how many drinks I had because I was so wasted…but that means it can't have been GHB, right? Since date-rape drugs make you forget everything, right?"

At Natsume's hesitant nod, she continued.

"Plus, I think I would know if my virginity had been stolen. And look at these jeans—" he eyed the obscenely tight clothing with a burning hatred "—it's impossible to get these off or on me without my knowing. And I'm sitting here, perfectly coherent and carrying on a conversation with you. I'm. Fine." She reached out and put a comforting hand on his shoulder. "There's no alcohol poisoning, I'm not going to drop dead, and I haven't been violated by a strange man. I promise. Now. Can you give me a lift home?"

Natsume looked skeptical, though he acknowledged that everything she said was true.

"Fine," he conceded. "I won't take you to the hospital. On one condition!"

Mikan raised an eyebrow.

"You're crashing at my place so I can keep an eye on you. No arguments." Without waiting for her say-so, he picked her up, swung her over his shoulder, and sauntered off toward his car.

"Hey, wait! This wasn't elaborate display so that I would go home with you, was it?" She beat her little fists against his back. "And put me down! I might not be drunk anymore but that doesn't mean I won't throw up on the backs of your shoes!"

"Hush," he told her, but softened his steps.

"And you never answered my damn question!" She accused. "What the _hell_ were you doing out at four in the _fucking_ morning?"

Natsume walked up to his car—double parked in front of a fire hydrant in the no parking zone with three orange ticket slips stuck under the wipers—pulled open the passenger side door and dropped her in. He leaned down until their faces were level.

"Watch. Your. Mouth," he warned, smirking the same way he had for all the time she'd known him. "There's a 'lady' present."

And then he closed her car door.

* * *

**A/N: What'd you think? Should I continue? Or leave it as a one-shot like I intented? Oh, btw: sorry for Natsume being OOC for a little bit. It's difficult to convey worry with him. -.-**


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